“How Much Sad Did You Think I Had?”

When the blood decides to burst. So long clean jacket lining.

If this isn’t the perfect metaphor for survivorship (in likely all its forms) I don’t know what is. On the outside, all looks well. On the inside, you’re always a little bit bloodstained.

This morning I went for my routine follow up with my haematologist at the cancer centre. The waiting room for bloodwork was, as it usually is, busy. I pride myself on the silliest things, like not using my phone when I’m in a waiting area. To just sit with my feelings. Sit with the quiet. Except, it’s not quiet here anymore. There are caregivers talking to their patients. Some laughing (far too loud) and some doing their usual stare at me. “What’s she here for?” “She looks fine.” “Young and healthy.” Yeah… right.

If you scan the room you can tell who is still in treatment. The woman in the wheelchair with her son. Looking like she might pass out because she’s trying to hide the amount of pain she’s in. Plenty of hair, is it possible she’s at the beginning of her cancer ride? Or maybe she’s just having radiation. The middle aged woman who sits beside me wears a telltale beanie when it’s not that cold out. Covering what little hair she has. Velcro-like sticking to her scalp. Her and I are one of the few wearing masks. Her husband shows up with a cooler, you know he dropped her off at the front and went to park. I wonder what that must be like, since my journey was physically alone in this place. She asks “why did you bring the cooler?” And you can tell, he doesn’t know what to do. He’s frazzled and aching and broken, too. He thinks he’s helping. He’s trying to do anything he can to help. After a few whispers between them, he gets up and rushes off, no doubt going back to the car to deposit the cooler in the trunk where it belongs — for now. She’s probably waiting on bloodwork to confirm whether she can have treatment today.

There’s a louder older gentleman across from me with a caregiver. Wife? Daughter? Age can be hard to tell sometimes. He’s going on about how Taylor Swift is overrated. How she doesn’t know how to write melodies or songs and, and, and. While I quietly hum to myself “How much sad did you think I had, did you think I had in me? How much tragedy?” Lines from a new song that resonate well with me. That speak to me on levels my soul understands. Tired of the daily grind. Tired of the shoulds, woulds, coulds. Tired of the brave face of resilience. I don’t want to be resilient anymore. I just want to be. I don’t want to jump into the storm clouds that regularly knock on my window for years and years and years. I just want to be. Live in the moment. Enjoy the people I love. Not live in a game of chess where I always need to be ten steps ahead to be prepared for what is inevitably coming my way this day or the next. The endless grief of being alive. 

Back to the older man and his caregiver. Today, I’m using my phone. I’m playing games on it. Mundane. Mind-numbing. Thoughtless games. Because I’m number 47 and they’re only on 35. And today, I don’t feel like being alone in my thoughts or looking over at the people clearly suffering beside me. The woman who limps in pain. Who can barely take two steps without wincing. I remember when I was her. And I don’t feel like being reminded today. The man says to his caregiver that kids shouldn’t be allowed to have phones in the classroom (I whole-heartedly agree). His caregiver says “well, we’re all addicted to them” as she nods over at me. Thinking I can’t see. I want to put it down and say “I don’t usually do this. I usually sit in the silence and enjoy it.” But instead, I listen. He says “yes, but we’re not learning.” Aren’t we though?

Most of these appointments I’m one of few younger folk. Sometimes the only one. I’m not on my phone, but many are. And I think to myself “sir, what do you know of what it is like to be alive at this age at this time?” We are all addicted to the computers in our pocket. We have generally lost our collective ability to sit in silence. Now, it’s a conscious effort, if that’s something you want to do. And yet, there you both sit, judging me and the elder millennials in general. You don’t know my story. You don’t know my song. 

They call 47. I’m glad to be removed from these thoughts and conversations. Thinking only how much more I liked the cancer centre when it was quiet and thoughtful during COVID. Or at least quiet and sombre. How it should be waiting for bloodwork at the cancer centre. How it should be when there are lives falling apart all around you. If you’re one of the lucky few to have a top knot and just be checking in. Maybe we shouldn’t laugh so heartily in these seats? Maybe we shouldn’t speculate about generations so loudly in these seats? Or maybe what we need is more levity here, in these seats. 

My bloodwork is done and I find out why they’re slower than usual — new people working on new systems, in new stations. I respond to the usual questions “what’s your last name?” “What’s your birth date?” Hitchcock-Welsh. November 25th ’84. I talk about the weather “another gloomy day.” “I know.” “It’s such a bummer, it makes everyone unhappy.” But maybe, it’s just me who is feeling unhappy today? Gloomy. Moody. Down? I give her my right arm, knowing that my left doesn’t like needles. It never works well. Or if it does, it’s prick after prick after prick and frankly, I’m sick of being pricked.

I’m sent on my way and tell them good luck with the new system and the day. They chuckle and thank me, every day is a busy day at the cancer centre. But especially when you’re sitting at a new station, learning a new system. The nurse tells me she’s not used to patient names. She is often in the lab, with the vials, not the names. The head nurse jokes “it’s still her blood you’re working with.” “Yep, it’s still mine.” I think.

I walk with my head held high as I leave. Making my way to the stairs to my haematologist’s clinic. I never did take the elevator much. I save it for those that really need it. And I’m still low-key paranoid of being in a small space post-COVID. Each time I walk that staircase I think of the times I could barely make it up those stairs. Now I can almost run them. But now, my heart stays firmly in my chest and I don’t want to lie down on the floor when I get to the top.

I give them my name and health card and then there I go, the next waiting area. This area always reminds me of my first check up post first chemo. When I still had hair, but couldn’t walk or breathe properly. When sitting in that chair was excruciating and I just wanted to go home and lie down in my dark, dark room. Alone, please.

I open my phone to input my symptoms (if any) so the doctor can know how I’m feeling. As I sit there I think “why does my arm feel wet?” I peer into my sleeve and see it — blood. Encasing my elbow crease. All over the inside of my favourite Red Sky jacket. I pop up and walk quickly to the reception, “hi, my blood has burst, should I run back down to the lab?” One of the receptionists suggests I go to the bathroom and wash it all off and apply a paper towel for a few minutes, while the other runs around looking for a bandaid. 

I do as I’m told, head into the bathroom, as I’ve done almost every visit before. I lean forward to hang up my jacket and my necklace falls off. It’s gold and engraved, very small, are the words “THE ONLY WAY OUT IS THROUGH”. Standing there covered in blood looking at the floor and my ruined jacket I think to myself, “well, isn’t this perfect.” Not overtly cynically, just, factual. I apply the paper towel that reminds me of pizza days in elementary school and the blood stops. When I come out, a bandaid is ready for me and I say “well, I guess new things do happen every day.” Or something like that. “It happens sometimes,” they respond. “Never to me,” I think. But why not? Why not another stupid, little mishap?

Back to the chair, I sit. Waiting to be called. Bloodstained jacket and phone still in hand — I never did fill out my patient questionnaire — sorry about that. I’m called over to take my weight and guided to the exam room. I’m not there five minutes and my doctor comes in. I wait as he asks how I’m doing. I’m just okay, today. I say. 

After our niceties, he tells me my CT scan (taken two weeks prior) looks amazing. The most recent CT scan was performed at the same place I was diagnosed. I hadn’t been to that scanner or area since my hospital stay in early 2021. To say I was feeling a little triggered being there is an understatement. So triggered, I forgot which arm takes blood better. Flustered, I gave her my left, when it should have been right. “Oh, wait, this is the wrong arm — I’ve forgotten which arm.” I was bewildered. How could I forget which arm? I guess that’s what happens when you graduate to six month appointments. For which I am both grateful and terrified in equal measure. There’s a comfort in being there. In being monitored. There’s a deep fear of being out in the world as a cancer survivor and not being followed. A part of me wants CT scans twice a year for the rest of my life. But I know our system can’t handle the cost of that, and data shows, my body really doesn’t need that. 

My thoughts are slightly relieved about the CT scan, but still holding my breath for the bloodwork to come through. My doctor asks me about camping, checks out this rash that’s been making me feel scared for weeks. Red and irritated under my arms. He suggests it’s worth switching my deodorant. Maybe the natural stuff I’ve been using has gone bad somehow. Best believe, the drug store will be my first stop post appointment. He checks my spleen as always, making sure that lymph node isn’t swollen. We talk about how I did end up having a hysterectomy in December. I can’t remember if I mentioned that yet, but yep, no more uterus for me. My body was playing tricks again. Wreaking havoc as its want to do. We decided it was best to kick it out. So, we did. My haematologist leaves. He comes back: “the bloodwork is perfect.” 

And I realize… this may be the first full breath I’ve taken in weeks. 

“What’s next?” 
“See you in six months.”

I leave and walk to my car. Again, breathing for the first time in weeks. 

I get into the seat and do what I always do after these appointments: I let out a big, audible sigh and place my forehead on the steering wheel. When I look up, one of the patients from the bloodwork clinic walks by. Their face wrought with pain. The one who had trouble walking. She’s holding her side now. On another day I might roll down the window and ask if she wants to get a coffee to talk about it. She’s clearly suffering. But not today. Today I’m too tired from holding worry in bones. Too tired from grief. Too tired from the rollercoaster. 

Today, I get myself a fancy coffee, because they bring me little, tiny sparks of joy. 

Today, I head to Shopper for a new deodorant hoping that makes the rash go away. Otherwise, I’ll just be thinking it’s cancer for the next six months. 

Today, I solemnly pick out groceries so I have something healthy to nourish my body with. 

Today, I sing to myself “How much sad did you think I had, did you think I had in me? How much tragedy?” At once, grateful to be breathing full breaths again, while sitting with the never ending grief that lives in my body and in my mind. That informs how I move through the world. That informs how it is that I get to be alive.